


Sentiment

by tellywhich



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Feels, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mycroft-centric, No Smut, POV Mycroft Holmes, References to Drugs, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, TFP never happened, Twitter Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 15:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11672064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/pseuds/tellywhich
Summary: Mycroft's past finally catches up to him, threatening to destroy the last few avenues of connection that he has left with Sherlock, and by extension, John.Will he be able to evolve beyond his current capabilities, or will he fall?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fic includes implied drug use, references to actual substances, and references to overdosing and suicidal behavior. Additionally, there is some homophobic dialogue on the part of one of the characters.
> 
> This fic was inspired by the Twitterverse storyline, an epic and exciting continuation of BBC Sherlock as told through the tweets of @contactSH and @contactJHW, where Johnlock is canon. If you don’t follow them already, you can find their accounts here (https://twitter.com/ContactSH) and here (https://twitter.com/contactJHW).
> 
> Please note that @contactSH has officially declared that the Twitter accounts are not affiliated with the BBC, and both Sue Vertue and Joe Lidster have denied that they are an official part of the show.
> 
> MANY THANKS to [PsychGirl aka snycock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl) for the thought-provoking text convos, all-around support, and most excellent beta work.
> 
> MANY THANKS to [astudyintwinks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyintwinks) for the proofreading, enthusiastic keyboard smashing, motivational Benny C gifs, and general Johnlock camaraderie.
> 
> THANKS to loudest-subtext-in-television for writing the "M Theory" meta, and to TJLC Explained for making videos about "M Theory." I came to the fandom late and haven't read the whole meta, but the videos inspired this fic.

“ _Tell me more about your family...”_ That sweet lilting voice, the sigh of breath tracing his jaw, the pounding of his heart, the sweat rising on his face, his body damp with it...

Mycroft woke with a start, immediately rolling out of bed and staggering to the bathroom so that he could retch uselessly into the toilet. He hadn't eaten any dinner. There was nothing to offer as a purge for the memory. For that's what it was. Just a decades-old memory.

He'd first met James at a café. Or, rather, James had found him there, seduced him over tea and biscuits, the first brilliant mind Mycroft had ever encountered outside of the Holmes family. And oh, was he brilliant. And playful. He knew exactly how to draw Mycroft in.

At the time, Mycroft was newly appointed to his position at the Cabinet Office, and James was finishing a degree in Mathematics. Their fling turned into a passionate affair of almost six months, until the day Mycroft came home and realized he'd made the worst mistake of his life.

“ _James?” Mycroft stood in the doorway of his bedroom, shocked to stillness. They'd parted ways reluctantly that morning, but Mycroft hadn't expected to find James still in his flat at the end of the day. Scattered around on the bed were piles of file folders. Confidential. Top Secret. The papers were in disarray. James was dressed in a Westwood suit, charcoal gray, crisp white shirt, open at the throat, patent leather wing-tip shoes, black on black. Mycroft had never seen him dressed so well before._

_James smiled brightly. “You're home early.” His lilting Irish accent became more pronounced when he was excited. Mycroft stared at him. His brain felt unnaturally sluggish, trying to digest the reality of the moment._

“ _My files...”_

“ _Oh yes.” James stood up, prancing over to him._

_Mycroft glanced over his lithe form, then willed himself to look away. “You've been using me.”_

“ _Oh, well, yes.” He laughed, a strange huffing sound Mycroft had never heard from him before. The smile dropped from his face suddenly. “To find out everything I could about your little brother. He's a bad boy, Mycroft. He won't shut up about Carl Powers.”_

_It felt like there was no floor, or perhaps he had already fallen down. Mycroft staggered back, his mind reeling over all the things he'd told James, during those lazy times, post-coitus. Over breakfast. He'd been so skillfully manipulated he could almost still believe it was the sort of storytelling lovers do as they fall more in love. Sharing stories of the past, of family. That's the sort of thing lovers did, wasn't it?_

_His eyes focused on the paperwork on the bed. There were no files on Sherlock Holmes. They were all in his head. He stared at James, pleading. “My work. You realize what they will do to me when they find out-” James drew him into a kiss, and he pushed him away, sputtering. “Get off!”_

“ _Listen to me,” James hissed, in that rough voice he used when- Mycroft pushed that memory away savagely, closing the door on his confused arousal. Now was not the time. He felt sick._

“ _Are you listening?” James asked, his eyes glittering with malice._

_Mycroft nodded._

“ _You work for me now, darling. You cooperate, and they won't find out what I know. If you don't, well, bad things will happen to you. To Sherlock. Maybe to Mummy and Father? I always did want to meet them. Do you understand what I mean?”_

_James was so brilliant it hurt, his intellect a sharp knife sliding between ribs, piercing his heart. Mycroft devoted all his remaining control to keeping it together. “I understand.”_

_James smiled sweetly. “Good boy. Now the first thing I want you to do is tell Sherlock to forget about Carl Powers. Tell him to stop wasting his time on his useless hobby. It's going to get him in trouble.” The last words were spat like venom in his face._

“ _He must never know.” Mycroft gripped James' arms hard enough to bruise, but he didn't even flinch. “Promise me that you will never tell him about us.”_

“ _You're hardly in a position to negotiate.”_

“ _Please.” Mycroft sank to his knees, his palms pressing to the floor at James' feet. His mind was racing uselessly. This was the trouble with being granted so much power. It was so easily corrupted. He'd allowed himself to be corrupted._

“ _Oh, fine,” James said, his voice tightening to a snarl. “But only because it suits me not to have to think about fucking you ever again. I'm going to forget it all happened..oh, right about now.” He pushed past Mycroft roughly. “Bye bye!”_

_A moment later, Mycroft heard the door to his flat open and close._

 

 _It's just a memory. Just a memory. Just a memory. Just a memory..._ Mycroft leaned over the bathroom sink, staring at his face, the drawn lines, the bags beneath his eyes. How had he misjudged Moriarty so grievously? Even now that the man was supposedly dead, the fear that gripped his heart did not subside. How could it, when nothing was ever certain? Not with James. He was so changeable, his moods so erratic, and he was bloody brilliant. Leave it to him to figure out a way to die without actually dying. If Sherlock had been able to pull it off, James surely could have, as well.

It had been a good two years since Mycroft's last flashback, those memories of intimacy that became twisted in retrospect by the revelation of James' true nature. He was surprised by the level of disgust he still felt, the self-loathing, the hatred aimed both at James and at himself.

If he hadn't allowed himself to be seduced. If he had realized the value of total emotional detachment sooner, then perhaps Sherlock would have been safe. From almost all of the pain. He couldn't have saved him from Victor. But he could have saved him from James. Or, more likely, the most logical of his mind tracks chirped, James would just have found another way.

He glanced at the clock in the bathroom, the ticking echoing against the tiled walls and filling the room with sound. It was 3:34 am. Still enough time to get some sleep, and he needed it. Mycroft rinsed out his mouth with some water and then mouthwash and went back to bed.

 

Later that morning, Mycroft settled down at his desk, a fresh cup of espresso by his elbow, his Kingsley Square pen gripped between his teeth, and the latest political analysis of Western Europe spread out before him. Vaguely, he registered the sound of steps, and the near-silent creak of the door opening. He glanced at the clock. 6:30 am. This was early, even for Anthea.

She was standing quietly, waiting to be acknowledged. Mycroft looked up, the pen dropping from his mouth unceremoniously. He raised an eyebrow, noting that she was suppressing the urge to smile. “I happen to _like_ my office, Anthea.”

Anthea blinked. “I didn't say anything, sir.”

“You know perfectly well you don't have to.”

She actually smiled this time, a full affectionate grin that lit up her face. Mycroft realized he'd gone too far. He buried any feelings of reciprocation and gave her his trademark blank stare, tucking his chin impatiently.

Anthea responded in kind, the smile dropping from her face. She handed him the manila folder she'd been holding. “Twitter has become very interesting, sir.”

Mycroft frowned and opened the folder to reveal a single Twitter post from Sherlock's account, blown up to full-size on the page.

 

_No, I think John may fellate me._

 

“Dear God, Sherlock!” Mycroft tossed the folder onto his desktop and scrabbled for the pen, spinning it in his hand. He abhorred public displays of affection, and this- well, this was obscene.

“I'm almost sure it was John, actually,” Anthea said. “But that’s not the worst of it. Victor has been in contact. Look at the next few pages.”

Mycroft paged through the rest of the stack, his stomach sinking. How had he not seen this coming? It fit right into the pattern of devastation that persisted in swirling around him. Sherlock had already gone too far down that road. He didn't need further impetus to return to old habits. Mycroft stared blankly at the drab gray wall across from his desk, his mind racing over the possibilities. If James was truly dead, who else would know about Sherlock and Victor?

“Is everything all right?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft glanced up at her. “I'm afraid not, Anthea. Will you summon a car? I'm going to have to get directly involved, after all.”

“Of course,” she replied, her lips pressing together. Mycroft pushed the manila folder closed and steepled his fingers under his chin. She was becoming too familiar. He pushed his anxiety about Anthea away and forced himself to contemplate the situation with Sherlock.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Cambridge University, c. 1996_

“ _Why does it hurt so much, Mycroft?” Sherlock was huddled on the filthy back room floor of the pub on Silver Street, his vomit spread around him like blood splatter at a crime scene._

“ _Sherlock, please. Get up.” Mycroft glanced worriedly at the kitchen doors. He had come as quickly as possible once receiving the call from Sebastian. Sherlock's boyfriend had broken up with him a few days ago. Sebastian and Sherlock had gone out for a drink two hours ago. Sherlock had quickly spiraled out of control, and at the time of the call, he was vomiting and crying on the floor of the pub._

_The traffic from London had been horrendous, and by the time Mycroft arrived, Sherlock had been dragged to the back room. Where was Sebastian now? Why had he found Sherlock alone, left to the questionable ministrations of the jaded bartender and a supercilious Cambridge professor who was clearly a chronic drinker?_

_The bartender said he'd been paid enough to keep from calling the police, though once Sherlock started vomiting, he'd thought about doing it, anyway. Mycroft had barely been able to control his rage. He paid enough to cover the tab, which consisted of only two pints, and asked to see his brother._

“ _Victor...” Sherlock groaned, his face contorted._

_Mycroft frowned. This behavior did not correspond to the ingestion of two pints, no matter what the percentage of alcohol by volume. There was something else. Some other substance involved. He knelt next to his little brother, pushing the matted curls away from his face._

“ _Sherlock, please. If you can't walk, I'll be forced to call an ambulance.”_

“ _No one will love me again.” Sherlock stared up into Mycroft's face, tears spilling down his cheeks. “He was my only chance. And now he's gone.”_

_Mycroft stood, dragging his brother up with him. “Stop being irrational,” he snapped. Inside, his mind was in turmoil, panic short-circuiting his ability to be tactful. Sherlock had always been emotional, but this level of agony was unprecedented. Clearly, the secondary substance was augmenting the depressive effects of the alcohol._

_Sherlock swayed next to him, his legs barely holding him up, and Mycroft willed himself to calm down, to be gentler in his speech, as his hands tightened on his brother's shoulders._

“ _Sherlock, you're frightening me. Now please. Walk.”_

“ _Victor was a fluke,” Sherlock muttered, stumbling along as they made their way to the delivery entrance. “We're freaks, you and I. Abominations. Calculating machines. No one will ever, or could ever, love people like us.” His chin bounced off his chest, his feet barely clearing the threshold._

 _Mycroft followed Sherlock into the lane off Silver Street and paused to close the door behind him. His heart ached with the painful truth of Sherlock's words. There was no denying that the Holmes family_ was _odd. Too odd for most people's tastes. He sighed and wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders, bolstering him up._

_Sherlock came back to life just as they stepped onto Silver Street. He stuttered to a stand still and turned to look at Mycroft with wide eyes. “They'll all see me like this. They'll tell Victor.” He started dry-heaving, his legs giving out._

“ _No, no, brother mine. You must stand up.” Mycroft pulled Sherlock upright again, one hand making soothing circles on his upper back. “We're going to London. My flat. Please, Sherlock. Just another block and a half.” He half-carried and half-dragged Sherlock to the corner of Silver and Trumpington. Fortunately, he'd been able to find parking nearby._

“ _I can't go back...” Sherlock was starting to panic._

_Mycroft glanced around, noting the passersby who were looking in their direction. No one had tried to help so far, thank God, but it was only a matter of time. “Sherlock, you idiot, listen to me,” he hissed. “We are going to my flat in London. I will take care of you there. You do not have to go back to your room ever again if you don't want to. All right?”_

“ _Fine,” Sherlock muttered, his slimy, vomit-covered fingers clinging onto Mycroft's jacket sleeve. One of Mycroft's mind tracks began to panic over the range of contaminants on his bespoke suit, not to mention the odor, but he turned the track down and refocused on the moment._

 

* * *

 

Mycroft got out of the car at 221 Baker Street, hesitating before closing the car door behind him. Clearly, Anthea was prepared to stay behind, as usual, but he couldn't help wishing he could ask for her support. He shook himself free of the thought, disturbed that it had even crossed his mind as a viable option.

At that very moment, she looked up from her Blackberry, her face carefully neutral. “Want me to come along?”

Mycroft tensed. “This is a family matter, Anthea. Have the car come back around in an hour.”

She nodded, her gaze returning to the Blackberry. He pushed the car door shut and stepped up to the front door, straightening the door knocker before rapping sharply.

He had to rap two more times before the door flew open to reveal a rumpled Mrs. Hudson, still in her bathrobe, her eye makeup smeared. Mycroft's lip curled, his hands clenching the umbrella handle as he held it in front of him like a cane.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” Mrs. Hudson snapped. “If you didn't bring any Alka-Seltzer with you, then get off my stoop.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I am not your errand boy.”

“Ugh!” Mrs. Hudson turned her head away. “Can you imagine? You as a boy? You must have been born in a suit, with a sour expression on your face.”

“Mrs. Hudson, if you don't let me in-”

“I'm not Sherlock's doorman, you know.” She shook her head curtly and immediately winced, pressing a hand to her temple. “If you want to come in, you'll have to ask your brother to let you in himself.” She slammed the door in his face, and Mycroft heard the bolt slide home.

A few moments later, there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Descending. Mycroft shifted his feet impatiently, tapping the metal tip of his umbrella on the step. The door opened a crack, and Sherlock peered out at him. The single blue eye that Mycroft could see was red-rimmed and bloodshot, the skin around it deathly pale.

“Let me in, Sherlock,” Mycroft demanded, set on edge by the sight of his little brother in such an uncomfortably familiar state.

“I'm not talking to you about Twitter. Might as well go away.”

Mycroft glared at Sherlock's eye. “Yes, you will talk. Right now.”

“Oh, grow up,” Sherlock muttered. “I’ll delete the tweet. All you have to do is ask.”

Mycroft pushed the door open. “I said let me in.”

Sherlock yielded, letting Mycroft into the front hall. They stared each other down, Mycroft noting the unhealthy pallor of Sherlock's face, his old t-shirt and pajama pants, the shabby dressing gown, his bare feet.

Sherlock sneered. “You're so afraid of sex that you had to come to my flat at seven in the morning to ask me to delete a tweet about being fellated by John? Why don't you just sleep with Lady Smallwood and get it over with?”

“Stop it, Sherlock.” Mycroft closed the door with a slam. “You know I'm here to talk about Victor.”

 

* * *

_St. Bart's Hospital, London, c. 1996_

_It was a few weeks after the pub incident at Cambridge that Sherlock went missing from his classes. When Mycroft found him, he'd been on the verge of overdosing, his body twitching as he curled up into a ball, in clothes that hadn't been changed in days. By now, the university had notified their parents of Sherlock's absence. It was all he could do to keep Mummy at bay, promising her that he would tell her as soon as he had any news._

_Mycroft paced nervously in the hospital room, pausing to stare aimlessly out the window. The phone rang, shattering the silence, and he blinked at it a moment before lifting the receiver._

“ _Yes?”_

“ _How is he?” Mummy's voice was low, full of steel._

_Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, who was staring at him, his eyes glazed with fright. “He's in quite a fragile state for the moment. But he'll live.”_

_Luckily, the worst of the withdrawal symptoms had finally abated. Before he could speak again, Mummy hung up on him. He let the sound of the dead line press into his ear for a moment before settling the receiver back on its hook._

“ _Did you tell her?” Sherlock asked._

_Mycroft sat down in the chair by the bed, studying his little brother. He looked more like a corpse than a living human being. “Of course not,” he answered quietly. “I'm not sure how she tracked us down.”_

_Sherlock met Mycroft's eyes. “She's our mother. I'm sure she deduced it rather quickly.”_

“ _Touché.”_

_Sherlock looked away, bringing his arms out from under the covers, placing them over his heart, right hand over left, his fingers twitching restlessly. He was afraid. He was longing for the next fix._

_Mycroft frowned. “Sherlock, you need to stop this. You must not succumb to this.”_

“ _Oh, it's too late, Mycroft.”_

_Mycroft sighed. This was a pivotal moment. It could determine the direction of Sherlock's next choice. He must choose his words carefully “Sherlock-”_

“ _First it was just cocaine,” Sherlock interrupted. “A seven percent solution. But I got bored. You know how quickly I get bored. Heroin numbs everything so much more effectively.”_

_Mycroft stood abruptly and began to pace the room again, the agitation pouring off of him in waves. He could feel Sherlock's eyes following his movements, drinking in the details of his emotional response. He shoved his panicked thoughts away, marshaling his mind into a rigid order, shutting down his more emotional mind tracks so that he could focus on the logical course of action. “Sherlock, you must make a list,” he said woodenly, pinning his brother with a sharp glance. “Every time you use. Of every substance you've taken.”_

_Sherlock looked surprised. “You're not going to argue with me? Tell me to stop? Send me to rehab?”_

_Mycroft turned away, bowing his head. Mummy wouldn't want the rehab. She would expect Sherlock to recover on his own._

“ _Ah,” Sherlock said. “You're right.”_

“ _Promise me.”_

_Sherlock watched him warily, then finally, agonizingly slow, he nodded once. Barely. “I will make a list. From now on.”_

_Mycroft closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping._

 

* * *

 

“What about Victor?” Sherlock asked with forced nonchalance.

Mycroft frowned. “He's been in touch recently.”

“So? All that was twenty years ago, Mycroft. It doesn't mean anything anymore.”

“And only two years ago, you made a very long list.”

“Sherlock?” John's voice carried down the stairway. “What's going on?”

Sherlock straightened his shoulders. “I was trying to solve the mystery of Emilia Ricoletti, of course.”

“You were trying to die,” Mycroft snapped, quickly composing himself as John came down the stairs.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” John asked, his voice hoarse.

Mycroft was not surprised to see that he was properly dressed, in his usual oxford, trousers, and loafers combination. He was definitely the tidier of the two, with a desire to maintain a strong front, especially for people he deemed untrustworthy. In a single glance, he noted the worry on John's brow, the frustration in the tension of his fists, and the denial of fear in the stubborn tilt of his chin. And underneath it all, expressed by his slumped body posture, a sickly current of guilt.

“My brother was just leaving,” Sherlock muttered. He pushed past John and walked quietly up the stairs.

John glared at Mycroft, his lips pulled into a tight line. “You're going to tell me what this is about. Now.”

Mycroft repressed the urge to snap back. That damn military bravado of his always set him off. “That's exactly why I'm here, John. Shall we go upstairs?”

John headed back up to the flat, his hand gripping the bannister so hard that his knuckles were white. He was not just afraid. He was terrified. Perhaps even more so than after Magnussen’s death. Mycroft steeled himself and followed him up.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_St. Bart's Hospital, London, c. 1996_

_When Mummy arrived in the hospital room, the look in her eyes froze Mycroft to the very core of his being. He had hoped that Father would be here, to help temper her fear and anger._

“ _Oh fuck,” Sherlock whispered. His breath puffed in short bursts through his mouth._

“ _What's wrong with him?” Mummy asked, the syllables sharp. She pulled the chart from the end of the bed before Mycroft could respond._

_Sherlock sat up nervously. “Mummy, please.”_

_She looked up, lowering the chart slowly, her eyes boring into her youngest son._

“ _What were you thinking, you idiot boy? Don't you realize I gave up a career in mathematics to raise you?” She walked to the side of the bed across from Mycroft, towering over her youngest son. “How dare you? After all the work you've done? You are nothing but an opportunistic mooch. A waste of intellect. A shame to the family name.”_

“ _Mother!” Mycroft hissed. “That's quite enough.”_

_Sherlock shrank back against the pillows, tears welling in his eyes. He broke the silence with a dull sob and wrapped one arm protectively across his stomach._

_She looked like she was about to hit Sherlock. “So, who caused all this nonsense? Tell me, what's his name?”_

_The room suddenly felt much colder. Sherlock had gone completely blank, his eyes falling shut. He could have been a cadaver. Mycroft cleared his throat, and Mummy fixed him with a penetrating glance. He tried to wipe his expression, make his posture neutral, but it was too late._

“ _Ah, so it_ was _to do with a boyfriend,_ _” she mused, her lip curling with contempt. “Thank you for telling me, Mycroft.”_

_Mycroft flushed as Sherlock's eyes flew open, and Mummy leaned into his face. “Your father and I didn't send you to Cambridge to be shagged senseless by a-”_

“ _Stop it!” Mycroft snapped, his ears ringing, his tongue thick in his mouth. “He's already been through enough. Can't you see that?”_

“ _This is your fault, Mycroft,” Mummy continued, eerily calm as she straightened up to look at him. “You know Sherlock has always been an emotional child. Didn't you see this coming?”_

“ _Didn't you?” he snarled back, his shoulders tensing with the unfairness of her expectations. He'd been looking after his brother almost his entire life, on top of being expected to work his way into Parliament. It didn't seem to matter that, at only 26 years of age, he'd already managed to secure a position in the Cabinet Office that afforded him far more influence and power than a seat in the House of Commons._

_Mummy pressed her lips together. “Fix this, Mycroft.” She indicated Sherlock with a sharp jerk of her head. “And get him tested for HIV.”_

_Mycroft clenched his fists. “Mother-”_

“ _Oh, it's not just because of the gay thing,” she scoffed. “He's a drug addict, Mycroft! A double risk.”_

“ _Where's Father?” Sherlock asked quietly, his voice broken into little pieces._

_Mummy turned away from her youngest son. “Oh, he couldn't bear to see you like this. He stayed home.”_

_She already knew, Mycroft realized suddenly. Everything. And she didn't tell Father anything._

“ _Fix this, Mycroft,” she repeated and left the room without a backwards glance. He looked over to see tears running silently down Sherlock's face._

“ _Sherlock, obviously she didn't tell Father,” he said urgently. “I'll call and tell him right now.”_

“ _No, don't.” Sherlock's face crumpled. “She's right not to tell him.” He turned his head away, his shoulders shaking._

_Mycroft sat back down in the chair, nauseous. Why had she been so cruel? She had always been strict, absolutely brilliant, and somewhat detached. But never this cruel._

“ _Sherlock, I didn't mean- I didn't tell her. I tried not to, that is.”_

“ _You're supposed to protect me,” Sherlock muttered. “You're good at everything else, but you're absolute shit at this one thing.”_

_Mycroft resisted the urge to lash out. Sherlock was not in any condition to think rationally. Furthermore, he had never been particularly good at acknowledging all the ways his older brother helped him. It was a peculiar blindness that Mycroft had long ago given up on trying to fix. Instead, he settled on an old tactic. Changing the subject._

“ _I had a boyfriend once.” It felt as if all the air left the room. Sherlock stopped shaking, lying suddenly very still, waiting to hear more. Mycroft cleared his throat. “He...it ended badly. We dated for six months.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, rushing to be said before he changed his mind. “I swore never to get involved with another person again. My work is too dependent on secrecy and deceit. There is no room for love or even sex.” He twisted the gold band on his right ring finger, the symbol of his commitment to himself, a secret hint of his own sentimental leanings._

_Sherlock wiped his face furtively with his hands and turned his head toward Mycroft. “When?”_

“ _Last year.”_

“ _What's his name?”_

“ _I can't tell you.” Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in the chair, meeting Sherlock's stare._

“ _Why?”_

“ _I can't tell you that, either. I'm sorry.”_

_Sherlock frowned. “It still hurts?”_

“ _Yes.” He could barely get the word out, his throat was burning so badly._

“ _So much for emotional detachment.”_

_They stared each other down for a moment, bristling, a fierce wave of animosity threatening to derail the moment._

_Sherlock looked away first. “So you're gay, too? What will Mummy think?”_

_Mycroft bowed his head. “I don't know what I am, Sherlock. At uni, I discovered that I am irresistibly drawn by a person's capability to intellectually stimulate me, rather than the specifics of their particular anatomy.”_

_Sherlock raised his eyebrows, sniffing. “That's rather unexpected. Very open-minded of you.”_

“ _And no longer applicable. This body is just transport. You must understand this, Sherlock. Emotional attachment is a liability that we cannot afford. Not us, with our minds that work the way they do. We must preserve all of our energy for the work of our minds.”_

“ _So I was right.” Sherlock bit his lip. “I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life.”_

_Mycroft sighed. “The sooner you get used to it, the better.”_

_Sherlock nodded._

“ _But I'll always be here for you,” Mycroft added, his throat tightening as he remembered how he found his brother. “Do try to remember that.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Mycroft could tell he was moved by the sentiment._

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was in his armchair when John and Mycroft arrived in the sitting room. His face was blank, eyes fixed on the kitchen table. John silently dragged a chair over from the kitchen, positioning it between their two armchairs. Mycroft leaned his umbrella by the door. As soon as he settled into the chair, though, Sherlock pulled his mouth into a stubborn line and got up, striding towards the kitchen.

John frowned. “Could you come back over here, Sherlock? Please?”

“No.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth. “For God's sake, Sherlock! We need to talk about this! Now!” He hadn't meant to snap, but it was just all too much. John turned to give him an irritated look. It was a defeat in the brotherly war of wills, and Sherlock was smirking triumphantly at the outcome.

“You've always been a little overbearing-” John began.

“A little?” Sherlock snorted, loudly clattering dishes as he pulled two- _only two-_ mugs from the cupboard and started the kettle.

“-but this is unprecedented,” John finished. “It's half seven in the morning. The only reason I asked you up is because I could tell you wouldn't leave without saying your piece. So just say what you need to say, Mycroft. Don't mince words.”

Sherlock's smirk deepened, and he turned to open the fridge, loudly rummaging through the bottom drawer. The loud clinking of glass threatened to shatter the last remnants of Mycroft's patience. He willed himself to take a few deep breaths as John settled back in his chair, his shoulders sagging slightly as the edges of his bravado melted, yielding to anxiety.

“I'm here to talk about Victor,” Mycroft said. “I don't believe Sherlock has told you the full story.”

The kettle dinged and Sherlock began preparing the tea, a nervous edge to his movements.

John's eyes flickered away over Mycroft's shoulder. “Well, no.” Behind him, Sherlock paused, listening despite himself. “He said he'd tell me when the time is right.”

“Frankly, there probably will never be a right time,” Mycroft replied. He took another breath and launched into his speech. “Victor was a catalyst-”

“Mycroft, stop!” Sherlock strode into the sitting room, tea sloshing onto the carpet from the mugs he carried in each hand. He dropped one on the table by John's arm, startling him, and then practically spilled his own mug into his lap as he fell into his chair. “He told me you wouldn't let him see me. To say good-bye. All those years ago. He said you _threatened him_.”

Mycroft blinked.

“Yes,” Sherlock snarled. “He told me how he tried, when I was in hospital, but you turned him away. He told me how he pleaded with you, explained his situation, how it wasn't his fault. And you still turned him away. Ensured he wouldn't be able to return.”

John was breathing shallowly, his fingers, on both hands, digging into the armrests of his chair.

“John, are you all right?” Mycroft tried to sound as soothing as possible.

“Don't!” Sherlock rose from the chair, towering menacingly. “Don't you dare even talk to him. Nothing can come between us anymore. Not even you. I won't allow it. Do you understand?” At this, Sherlock grabbed Mycroft by the collar, his face mere inches away, fear and rage chasing each other across his face.

“Sherlock. Stop. That's not what he's trying to do.” John was suddenly standing next to them, a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock shuddered, blinking rapidly. Mycroft could see the tears forming in his brother's eyes from this uncomfortably close range. He tried to ease back, but the chair was penning him in. Sherlock shook him by the collar.

“I tried your way, Mycroft. I tried to turn to ice. I tried after Victor. I tried to stay that way when I met John, and I paid dearly for it. It set us back _years_. I was forced to come to the conclusion, the hard way, that _your way doesn't work._ Everything about you leads to death, destruction, misery. So just, just- _fuck off_!” Sherlock released him roughly, staggering back.

John stood frozen, hand still hovering to where it had been on Sherlock's shoulder. His eyes met Mycroft's, confusion, sadness, and pain in the creases of his face, the set of his mouth. He had been holding his breath, and now he let it out with a gentle whoosh.

“You should probably go, Mycroft.”

Before Mycroft could rise from the chair, Sherlock turned on him again. “I know, Mycroft. I know about you and Moriarty. Once Victor and I started talking, I remembered what you said at the hospital. About your boyfriend. The rest wasn't hard to deduce.”

John's eyes widened, and Mycroft looked down quickly, at his hands, folded uselessly in his lap. It felt like James was in the room with them, gloating in the corner, his eyes glowing with that manic glee that ignited him like a wildfire when things were going his way. As they always seemed to go. Panic bloomed in his chest as this deepest of secrets was unearthed. A heart attack, some distant part of his mind concluded. He must be having a heart attack. But his entire body was numb. Not just his right arm. He flinched at a warm touch on his wrist. John taking his pulse.

“He can't leave, Sherlock. He's in shock.” His voice was distorted, garbled through the rushing in Mycroft's ears.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_St. Bart's Hospital, London, c. 1996_

_The atmosphere in the hospital room remained decidedly awkward after Mycroft's little confession. He shifted restlessly in the stiff plastic chair by the bed, and Sherlock cleared his throat._

“ _Victor made a few paintings for me. I want you to retrieve them from my room.”_

_Keeping mementos of the relationship seemed like a terrible idea. Before Mycroft could voice his concerns, a loud electronic ring issued from his jacket, startling both him and Sherlock. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and glanced at the number. “I need to take this.”_

_Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Go ahead.”_

_Mycroft gave him a harried look and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him._

“ _Mycroft Holmes.”_

“ _Sir, designated target 68 is in the hospital. Would you like us to intercept?”_

_Mycroft frowned. “No. I will handle him personally.”_

_He hung up and shoved the mobile back into his pocket, then straightened his tie. Victor would be in a rush, and would have stopped by the information desk at the main entrance to ascertain Sherlock's whereabouts. They would have directed him to the elevator bank on the south side of the building. He spun on his heel and strode quickly down the hall, nurses and doctors glancing at him nervously as he brushed past._

_One of the three elevator doors was opening just as Mycroft rounded the corner. Sure enough, Victor Trevor was stepping out of the lift, a box of chocolates in hand. His eyes were red-rimmed, his normally fastidious hair mussed up, several days worth of stubble on his chin. Mycroft savagely shut down all of his mind tracks but three. The three he used at work. The three that served Queen and Country with a single-mindedness that frightened him sometimes._

“ _Oh God, Mycroft, how is he?” Victor gasped._

“ _Get back on the lift, Victor,” Mycroft replied, unblinking. “You were never here.”_

_Victor swallowed, his chin trembling. “No, please. Just let me see him this once.”_

“ _No.”_

_Victor flinched, as if Mycroft had tried to hit him. “Please. You have to understand. I didn't want to leave him. My father found out about us-” He choked up for a moment, then cleared his throat. “-and he gave me little choice in the matter.”_

“ _I know about Sebastian's little side business, Victor.” Mycroft straightened his shoulders, summoning the fierce expression that he used for interrogations. “And I know Sherlock wasn't his only client. It would be rather unfortunate if Cambridge were to discover the entirety of the story, would it not?”_

_Victor stared at him, and Mycroft could see the pulse racing in the hollow of his neck. The box of chocolates slipped out of his hand, falling to the floor with a dull slap._

“ _You would do that? To me? To Sebastian? He's stopped distributing already. It was just for a little while. Just for fun. On the weekends only. We agreed to that all together. We didn't know about Sherlock and-” he lowered his voice “-the heroin. None of us did. Until now.”_

_Mycroft tensed. “Sherlock didn't turn to heroin until after your relationship ended. To numb the pain.” He knew this was a spiteful thing to say, but he just couldn't resist._

_Victor started blinking rapidly, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths as he attempted to maintain his composure._

“ _I didn't know,” he said._

“ _There are many ways I could make your life difficult if you ever attempt to see Sherlock again.” It was a terrible bluff, but Victor didn't seem to notice. Mycroft pressed forward, using his considerable height and girth to physically intimidate him._

_Victor leaned back against the lift doors. “I- I know you work in government, but how could you possibly-”_

“ _Do not test me on this,” Mycroft hissed._

_Victor shuddered and closed his eyes, tears squeezing out from the edges to trail slowly down his face. Mycroft watched as if mesmerized, hating himself for doing this, hating this entire situation, knowing there were no alternatives. Sherlock must learn how to emotionally detach himself from others, and this was the perfect opportunity._

“ _My heart was already broken, Mycroft.” Victor's left hand crawled blindly along the elevator panel, his fingers pressing the down button weakly. “You didn't need to do this to me. To us.”_

_A moment later, the lift chimed, the doors slid open, and he nearly fell inside, catching himself at the last minute. He backed into the elevator compartment, his eyes lowered until the doors started to close, and then he met Mycroft's eyes._

_Mycroft clenched his teeth, the doors closing before he had a chance to answer. He took a shaky breath and staggered backwards to lean against the wall, staring at the blank doors, wrestling his anger and sorrow to the back of his mind._

 

_* * *_

 

When Mycroft came to, he was stretched out on the couch, his tie and shirt loosened. John was hovering nearby, his fists clenched. Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

“Your vital signs are normal,” John said, avoiding his gaze. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” His voice came out in a croak. “Thank you.” He couldn't bring himself to pretend he was okay, so he just smiled instead, a weak smile, suitable to one just returning to consciousness and perhaps not all there yet. It was almost over, this endeavor.

He rose to his feet unsteadily. John stepped backward, maintaining distance, his jaw clenched so tightly that Mycroft thought he could hear his teeth squeaking together.

“John-” Mycroft began.

“You should have told me. About Moriarty.”

Mycroft blinked, dropping his gaze.

“You could have hinted at it,” John continued. “Something. Anything. Especially after-” he cleared his throat, half-turning, his right hand running through his hair. “-after we made the video to save Sherlock.”

“It wasn't relevant,” Mycroft replied. “Not when we had such a short time to work out our plan.” They had worked closely together to fake Moriarty's return, in the hope that it would bring Sherlock back from exile.

“I told you,” John said quietly. “About Sherlock. About how I felt. That would have been the perfect time.”

There was a long pause, and Mycroft noted the tension gathering around him, in the set of his shoulders, in his tightly controlled breathing pattern.

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft said, his voice too loud, startling John. “I have kept that part of my life buried for so long. It didn't occur to me to talk about it.”

John shook his hands out and clasped them behind his back, pacing a few agitated steps before turning to face him. “And that's not what you came here to talk about this time, either.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed, marshaling all of his willpower toward the completion of the task. He paused, feeling a strange urge to walk over to the door and take his umbrella in hand. “You must know by now that Sherlock is _always_ on the edge. And that he is very good at hiding it. You didn't even realize he was a user when you met him, did you?”

John looked away, his left hand curling and uncurling restlessly. “No,” he admitted. “I had no idea.”

“Do you remember the last list he made?” Mycroft asked, his mind skittering uncomfortably toward memories of his last conversation with Victor Trevor. But no. It would be different this time. He would not make the same mistake again. “When we found him on the plane?”

John gave a single sharp nod.

“Well, unfortunately,” Mycroft continued. “That was not atypical for Sherlock. Not in the slightest.”

John raised his chin, glaring. “And Victor Trevor?” he asked, his voice taut. “What part does he play in all this?”

“Clearly, that's Sherlock's story to share,” Mycroft replied, closing his eyes briefly, pressing his right hand to his eyelids. His ring felt cold against his skin. “ _If_ he wants to share it. All I can say is that the trouble began with him.”

He met John's eyes again, and they stared at each other for a long tense moment. John broke the stare first, hunching forward, growing completely still, his body poised like a coiled spring.

“Fine. I can deal with that.”

The words were short and clipped, snapping out of him as if made of compressed air. Mycroft noted the thin line of his mouth, the increasing tautness of his posture, and decided that the sooner he left the flat, the better. He cleared his throat into the uncomfortable silence, adjusted his suit jacket, and started toward the door, pausing briefly in the doorway to grab his umbrella.

“Good day, John,” he said, forcing himself to perform this last bit of social etiquette before fleeing down the stairs, barely seeing the hall, the light too bright when he stepped outside. The Jaguar was waiting for him, the door handle biting into his fingers as he opened it and slid onto the leather seat next to Anthea.

“All right?” she asked, her eyes flickering over his face curiously.

“To Whitehall,” Mycroft murmured, turning away from her gaze.

 

* * *

 

In the following days, Mycroft found that his heart just wasn't in the work. His desk was piled with memorandums, his tablet exploding with notifications, but all he could manage was the menial task of repeatedly taking apart his fountain pen and putting it back together. There was a loose splotch of ink on the blotter that his shirt sleeve kept dragging through, but he felt a perverse pleasure at making such a mess.

He shifted in his seat at the sound of Anthea's heels in the hall, attempting to appear somewhat professional. When she entered, she was in her customary suit, but her notepad was conspicuously absent. Mycroft sat up further, frowning, as she shut the door behind her with an odd sense of finality.

“We're not leaving this office until you talk to me,” Anthea said, looking him in the eye. Her chin was tilted stubbornly, though Mycroft could see that her hands were shaking, and were likely clammy based on how she was was rubbing the pads of her fingers lightly against her palms.

He decided to take the usual route. “What is the meaning of this, Anthea?” He glared at her sternly, which was normally enough to make anyone back down.

She merely crossed her arms, taking a half-step back before catching herself. “Mr. Holmes, I've been working for you for nearly nine years. I believe I have developed a certain amount of immunity by now. One glance isn't going to scare me away.”

Mycroft felt his heart racing, and he reminded himself to take a deep breath. It wouldn't do to lose his edge. Not now. Not with Brexit and the new U.S. president looming over his head.

“What do you want, Anthea?” He tried his best to sound brisk, but he was weary, and it showed. He watched nervously as she circled around and sat on the edge of his desk, uncomfortably close.

“I want you to admit that you need a friend.”

“Excuse me?” Mycroft held his breath, his stomach sucking in, as if somehow this way he could gain more distance from her.

She sighed and tapped her nails lightly along the lustrous desktop. “There's no bloody way anyone could put up with what you have these last few years without needing to confide in somebody.”

There was too much static in the room. In his mind. He couldn't think clearly. But he knew he could likely never trust anyone fully again. Certainly not anyone endeavoring to appeal to him via a forced friendship. He shook his head.

She frowned back at him. “Have I ever given you reason not to trust me?”

“You are doing so right now,” Mycroft snapped. The truth was, he wasn't sure _she_ could trust _him_. Who could, after all?

Anthea flushed, but maintained her position. “Mr. Holmes, you realize that I know more about you and your family than I ever cared to know? And that I could have used that against you a million times by now?” She pushed her auburn fall of hair over her shoulder impatiently. “You see, I'm not much for gossip. And I like my job. And I like you, for the most part.” She paused to stare at him intently. “And I've _seen_ the trouble you've been through. Frankly, the only reason it took me so long to speak up is because...well...you can be rather terrifying when you're backed into a corner.”

Mycroft stared up into her face, helpless, torn between wanting to yield to this moment, and wanting to maintain the protection of isolation. _Think, Mycroft._

Suddenly, everything made sense, in a vague, roundabout sort of way. A way that he could not categorize and quantify. He just knew he had to take this chance. He knew there was some plateau he had reached in his life that he would not be able to step beyond without this. Without interaction with another human being. Particularly, a human being of quality. Anthea did not bear the mark of false honesty. She had integrity. Spoke with clarity. Never engaged in the tiresome emotional manipulation that was so popular among the other political staffers. Mycroft swam to the surface of his thoughts and lifted his chin slightly, giving Anthea a severe look. One of her favorites, he knew. She smiled faintly in response.

“Erm...I'm afraid you caught me by surprise, Anthea.” He leaned forward in his chair, spinning the Kingsley Square in his fingers, frowning at the smear of ink on his cuff. She was completely still, almost holding her breath. Mycroft sighed. “You're right. I _would_ appreciate being able to consult with someone else regarding certain personal matters that have been vexing me for some time.”

“Well, that's exactly why I'm here, Mycroft,” Anthea hesitated a moment, and their eyes met. “If I may call you that.”

Inside, Mycroft could feel his personal universe inverting. “I'll permit it this time.” He paused, rerouting his automatic response, forcing a new one into the queue. “Actually, what I meant to say was...yes. You may. And thank you.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

There was a new sense of ease in Mycroft's life after he started talking to Anthea. Mostly, they talked in the car. They were too prone to interruption anywhere else, and it was hard enough to be vulnerable without the potential threat of being overheard. Anthea started to make a point of putting her Blackberry in her pocket every time they settled in for a ride.

After their first few conversations, which left him with a deep sense of unease, he learned that she was not going to laugh at him, or use the information against him. He vented about political issues that were weighing on his shoulders, complained about obligatory outings with his parents, and rounded out her knowledge of the Holmes family with amusing anecdotes.

He started to learn how to reciprocate; how to give her time to talk. She had a long-term girlfriend named Isla. A dog named Juno. They were preparing to move into a flat together. These were facts that he had deduced already, but hearing about them from her lent warmth to the knowledge.

Over time, the crush of problems to solve, crises to manage, family to juggle, social connections to maintain seemed to take a step back, the volume going down enough so that he actually had space to think. About his life. About himself. About his past.

Except that no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring himself to tell Anthea about Moriarty. Every time he looked her in the eye, thinking that he was ready, he froze, his mind spinning off into panic mode. He wanted ask her advice on how to repair his relationship with Sherlock, but he couldn't without revealing this most devastatingly crucial piece of the past.

And so he lied. He told her that he and Sherlock had argued about John, and that he had said some things he regretted. He listened to her suggestions eagerly, reformatting them for application to the true problem, extrapolating further solutions from the data.

But the problem grew even as he tried desperately to find a way to solve it. Each step toward the solution was also a step toward the realization that he had betrayed the person he loved most in the world, and that it wasn't just simple forgiveness he was seeking. It was redemption.

 

* * *

 

“Good luck,” Anthea said.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella, gathering courage. The Jaguar was idling outside of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock had finally agreed to meet with him. After another moment, he cleared his throat and opened the door, exiting the car with an air of stiff grandeur.

“I'll have the car around in an hour,” Anthea murmured, Blackberry already back in her hand. Mycroft smiled at her, a private smile that he hoped had escaped CCTV, and she grinned back at him. “Remember, you're the smart one.”

Mycroft chuckled and closed the car door, turning to face that familiar old stoop. John was just leaving.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“Hello, John,” Mycroft replied, glad to see that John looked fine. Better than fine, actually, though a touch less so upon seeing Sherlock's older brother waiting on the pavement. He looked closer. Ah, a shift in their relationship. They were heading in the right direction. At Anthea's suggestion, he'd long since stopped monitoring Sherlock so closely. Social media was not his realm of expertise, after all. There was no need to be so overbearing.

They stared at each other a moment, and then John nodded slightly. “Good luck in there. I tried to do everything in my power to make sure he's in a good mood. But, you know. It's Sherlock.”

Mycroft suppressed a smile. “Much obliged.”

John clenched and unclenched his left fist, his nervous tic, and hovered on the stoop before coming down to the pavement, leaving the door ajar behind him. “See you later.”

“Good day, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft replied. John's shoulders tensed as their eyes met, his natural distrust deepened to a new level. After another awkward moment, he turned and headed down the street.

 

When Mycroft arrived in the sitting room, he found Sherlock in his chair, knees drawn up to his chest, overcoat wrapped tightly around him like a cloak, a cup of tea balanced in his hands. Mycroft leaned his umbrella by the door, clearing his throat in the awkward silence.

“I made you a cup of tea,” Sherlock said.

“Thank you,” he replied. He met his brother's eyes, allowing the sentiment to flood his body, welling up into his face, shaping his expression. Sherlock put his tea cup down with a clatter, sitting up in his chair, dropping his feet to the floor.

“You're melting, Mycroft. It's making a mess.”

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, counting to five under his breath. He would not submit to the urge to snap back, lest the whole hour be frittered away by the same old brotherly strife.

“I am not the Ice Man, Sherlock.” He opened his eyes. “Just as you were never the Virgin.”

Sherlock was staring into the kitchen, a stubborn scowl on his face. Mycroft sighed, noticing the mug of tea on the kitchen table just as he sat down on the edge of the couch. He propelled himself back to his feet and gestured toward the mug. “May I?”

“I did say I made it for you, didn't I?”

_Why does he always have to behave like such a spoiled brat?_ Mycroft stalked over to the kitchen and took a sip of tea. It was over-sweetened.

“It's too sweet,” Sherlock muttered, his shoes tapping an erratic beat on the carpet.

“It's fine,” Mycroft replied, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. He reined it in, and headed back toward the couch.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft nearly spilled his tea. “You slept with Moriarty.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to sling the hot liquid at his little brother. Instead, he took a deep breath and settled further back on the couch. “We met at a café.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Boring. I've no interest in the sordid details.”

“You brought it up,” Mycroft snapped. This reactive response. It only ever happened with Sherlock. He imagined his hand crushing the mug, spraying shattered porcelain and tea all over his suit, the couch, the coffee table. Maybe a piece would fly across the room to fall at Sherlock's feet.

“You're wasting my time,” Sherlock said. He rose from his chair, and Mycroft left his mug on the coffee table, moving quickly to block the way to the hall. They sized each other up, Sherlock's eyes blazing. He was certainly in better physical shape, but Mycroft had the older brother advantage. He used every ounce of it now, but it only made Sherlock angrier.

“John isn't here to stop me this time,” he said, pushing Mycroft back against the wall savagely.

Mycroft pushed back automatically, muscle memory from his years of self-defense training. It was a long dormant skill, and he had grown soft in his bureaucratic life, but the instinct to protect himself was still there. Sherlock's eyes widened at the challenge. He slammed Mycroft to the floor in one swift movement. The air rushed out of his lungs on impact, and he vaguely registered the sound of fabric tearing.

He squirmed out of the headlock Sherlock was trying to put him in, his ears roaring with panic as he glanced desperately at his umbrella. It was designed more for emergencies, though, and he didn't think Sherlock was really trying to kill him.

“I'm more of a duelist, Sherlock!” he gasped as Sherlock pinned him to the floor, attempting to lock him into another hold. “Surely you can see the madness in this? I'm nearly fifty years old. Stop! You're really hurting me!”

“Good!” Sherlock snarled.

Something shifted inside of him, and without a second thought, he was flipping out of the hold, scrambling to his feet to grab his umbrella. Sherlock came at him and he riposted, stabbing him square in the chest. Sherlock swatted the umbrella away, and Mycroft swung his free hand wildly, his fist connecting with something hard. There was a sickening crunch, and Sherlock yowled.

Suddenly, there was blood everywhere. Sherlock was clutching his nose with one hand. With the other, he lunged at Mycroft, tackling him to the ground. Mycroft reached out desperately as he fell, knocking over the small table by John's chair, an avalanche of newspapers and magazines pummeling him in the face. Sherlock's weight was crushing the air out of his lungs. He coughed weakly and shoved the magazines out of the way just in time for a fist to connect with his jaw. Sparks exploded behind his eyes, and his ears rang with a high-pitched buzzing. He forced his mind back to focus on operating his limbs, and threw Sherlock to the floor. In a surprisingly efficient move, he pinned him and raised a fist, hesitating at the sight of his brother's bloody nose.

“Oy! Cut it out!”

It was an epic bellow that froze both brothers, and could only have come from a man accustomed to a certain chain of command. Mycroft turned to stare at John. He could feel his face flushing as he realized how they must look.

“He started it,” Sherlock protested, pushing Mycroft away roughly. Mycroft fell back onto his heels, numb, not even blinking when Sherlock wiped a bloody hand on his sleeve.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Really, Sherlock?” John remained in the doorway, glowering, the very picture of disapproval. His arms were crossed tightly in front of his chest. “I can't even believe my eyes.”

There was a weird tremor in his voice that Mycroft attributed to a trauma response until he saw the edges of his mouth twitching with the barest hint of a smile. Sherlock was grimacing and pressing a hand to his nose. John cleared his throat and threw his shoulders back, assuming the mantle of the doctor.

He approached Mycroft first, holding out a hand to help him rise. “Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine,” Mycroft muttered, straightening his suit. There was an odd chill at his back, and he realized he must have torn the middle seam of his jacket.

“I'll tend to him now.” John nodded curtly in Sherlock's direction.

Mycroft limped back over to the couch, settling himself as John crouched in front of Sherlock, pushing his hands away to inspect his nose.

“It's not broken,” he announced.

“I know,” Sherlock answered, a trifle nasally. “It wasn't even a real punch. It felt like a pillow fight.”

John's fingers tightened on Sherlock's shoulders. “Can you just behave like an adult around your brother? For once?”

Mycroft looked away, but not before seeing the look that passed between the two of them. Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and hopped to his feet. He settled into his armchair, glaring at John pointedly before shifting it noisily to face Mycroft across the room.

“You have ten minutes to explain yourself, Mycroft.”

Mycroft tucked his chin slightly, having somewhat lost the nerve to embark on this endeavor somewhere around the moment when he accidentally hit Sherlock in the nose. The two brothers stared at each other. Mycroft ran through the things he had planned to say, distilling the essential pieces out of the story. He took a deep breath.

“At your request, Sherlock, I will spare you the details. During my relationship with Moriarty, he gained access to all of my confidential files at the Cabinet Office. Obviously, he used this as leverage, forcing me to act as his agent. The harder I tried to free myself of the situation, the worse it became. In the chaos after his death, I was finally able to out-maneuver him, which allowed me to aid you in dismantling his international crime ring.”

John looked like he might draw a gun, and Mycroft took a moment to focus on him. No, he did not have his SIG Sauer within reach. It was just an old instinct.

Sherlock was bristling. “You told me to stop talking about Carl Powers. You said I was wrong. That I was a stupid child. That my work was a waste of time.”

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I was trying to protect you.”

“I want you to leave,” John said, his voice vibrating with anger.

“I'm not done with him yet,” Sherlock snapped, waving a hand to silence him, then catching himself. His eyes widened and he turned to give John an apologetic smile.

“It's all right,” John muttered.

Years of monitoring Sherlock and John had revealed all kinds of information that affected Mycroft in various ways, but nothing moved him more than this small display. The sentiment was simultaneously cloying and endearing. He cleared his throat, his resolve strengthened.

“I should have told both of you the truth long ago. I should have asked for help. But Moriarty was always a step ahead. He had layers and layers of fail safes built into every plan.”

“And you were always terrible at protecting me, anyway,” Sherlock replied casually, but the barb sank deep. “I realized that Moriarty had you under his command in the days before my fall, though I did not have time to consider how it could have happened.”

“Wait, you already _knew_?” John asked, his face flushing. “You already knew and you didn't think to tell me?”

“John,” Sherlock hissed, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

John glared at Sherlock. “I thought that when we became...whatever it is that we are, it would finally make a bloody difference. Even now, though, you still leave me behind.”

Mycroft made to rise from the couch, to excuse himself, but John raised a hand.

“You stay,” he snarled. “Maybe you'll learn something about being honest with the people you supposedly care about.”

Mycroft met Sherlock's eyes. His brother was watching him coolly. He settled back onto the couch, a weight sinking to the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he should have told Anthea about Moriarty, even if that meant losing her friendship. It would have given him an opportunity to practice the conversation. Even so, he doubted there was much chance for anything remotely close to forgiveness. It had been foolish to even consider it a possibility.

Sherlock turned his attention back to John. “I made a promise never to leave you behind again, John. Remember? My first and last vow. I said I would always be there for you.”

John looked taken aback. “But you said that at my-”

“You _know_ I meant you,” Sherlock interrupted. “Like I said then. It's always you, John Watson.”

John let out an explosive sigh and rubbed the back of his head with his left hand.

“That's good. That's really good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned. “How many times – oh, never mind.” He shifted in his chair with a huff, then fell still, gazing at his older brother thoughtfully.

Silence took over again, punctuated by the ticking of the clock. Mycroft wasn't sure what to do next. He could apologize, perhaps profusely, but that would likely be seen as even more disingenuous than everything he had already said.

“Oh, shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “I can practically hear your brain laboring over what to say next.”

“Should I just shoot him?” John asked.

Mycroft froze. John's face was completely impassive, his hands still.

Sherlock smirked. “You'd do that for me?”

“Already have, love,” John said, breaking into a grin.

“That's not funny in the slightest,” Mycroft protested. He almost wanted to say it. That sometimes, their sense of humor reminded him too much of Moriarty. It was strange how blurred the lines really were, between hunter and hunted.

“Fine,” John said. “You want us to be serious? Well, what if Moriarty isn't really dead? We stole his face and broadcast it all over the bloody country in order to save Sherlock. He could be out there, plotting his next move. And you could be recalled to duty at any time. I'm not sure I can live with that.”

“Perhaps you _should_ shoot him, then,” Sherlock said. “Technically, he is the last remnant of Moriarty's international crime ring.”

“This is not a joke,” Mycroft cried, his mind reeling. “This has been my life for two decades.”

Sherlock and John looked at each other, an embarrassed glance flashing between them.

“You could actually help me, you know,” Mycroft snapped. “Both of you. Help me confirm that he is truly dead, and never to return. The effort would be well worth it for our peace of mind.”

Sherlock had an unidentifiable expression on his face, half between rolling his eyes, and half between a worried frown. Mycroft didn't try to do anything but appear exactly how he felt. Empty. Hopeless. It seemed to work, because Sherlock relaxed and steepled his fingers under his chin, squinting.

“Of course we'll help you, Mycroft,” he said, his voice even and warm, with no hint of irony at all.

John's head snapped in his direction, and Mycroft made a valiant effort to not compare him to a puppet on strings.

Sherlock sat up in his chair, his icy blue eyes pinning Mycroft. “I remember that night in Cambridge. When Sebastian abandoned me at the pub. You came to get me, all the way from London.”

Mycroft looked away, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. He felt light-headed, detached from his body, and wondered if he was even in the room anymore. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands over his knees, letting the clock tick three more times before meeting Sherlock's eyes again.

“Of course I did, Sherlock,” he muttered. “You're my little brother. I've always tried my best to take care of you.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied quietly.

Mycroft shook his head. “I made one terrible mistake. And it cost me so much.”

John sighed. “I know the feeling. After all, I married an ex-assassin who almost killed the man that I didn't want to admit I was in love with.”

Mycroft met his eyes, and John gave him the barest hint of a smile, a sad look in his eyes.

“Obviously, we're all idiots,” Sherlock concluded crisply. “I suggest we move past all of this nonsense and just get on with our lives.”

John's smile deepened, and it was only for Sherlock, an affectionate grin that crinkled the edges of his eyes, made his face light up, and spoke volumes about the bond between the two of them.

 

_*** * *** _

 

Mycroft eased onto the leather seat at the back of the Jaguar, exceedingly grateful for the well-appointed interior. He had stayed long enough after their talk to drink a proper cup of tea, which stretched him to the limit, even with his new-found willingness to acknowledge sentiment. There was only so much one could take in a day, or even an hour. His entire body ached, and Anthea gave him questioning look.

“We had a bit of a wrestling match,” Mycroft groaned, rubbing his jaw.

Anthea snorted, trying to maintain professional demeanor, then gave up and burst into a fit of laughter. “Seriously?”

“Yes. But we also talked.” She grew still at that, and Mycroft smiled wearily. “I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you, my dear.” He reached across and patted her hand, and she briefly put her other hand over his, squeezing his fingers slightly.

Mycroft glanced down, in awe of the human touch. It gave him a strange double-edged sensation of joy and discomfort. He withdrew his hand gently. Perhaps one day he would want more. If he met the right person. Someone exceedingly brilliant and unquestionably trustworthy, of course. But, there was no rush. For the time being, he had everything he wanted - Anthea's friendship, Sherlock's forgiveness, and John's acceptance - powerful gifts from those who had dared to succumb to the weakness of sentiment, and as a result, had only grown stronger.

 


	7. Epilogue

 

Mycroft sat quietly at his desk, and for the first time in years, he found that he felt trapped. The drab gray walls surrounded him like an ever-present bank of clouds threatening rain. The sole portrait hanging on the wall opposite his desk did little for the gloom.

He opened the right-hand drawer, itching for a cigarette, and remembered too late that he'd finished the pack last night. His gold ring sparked in the lamplight, catching his eye. It was the same ring that he purchased at Bentley & Skinner a little over twenty years ago. He had it re-sized a few years ago after losing a considerable amount of weight, and he lost it once when he took it off at the gym, but other than that, it had always been on his right ring finger, a constant reminder of his commitment to emotional detachment.

Now it seemed to be growing too tight again, the metal clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He hesitated, staring down at his hand, and then slipped the band off his finger, letting it fall heavily into the compartment in his desk drawer that housed all manner of miscellaneous items.

There was a slight difference in skin tone where the ring had been, and he flexed his fingers experimentally. Just then, the door opened and Anthea walked in holding two paper cups.

“Are you ready to go, Mycroft? Isla is waiting outside.” She put one of the cups down on the desk in front of him. “I think they made you a cappuccino by mistake. Feel how light this cup is! We didn't notice until we were halfway back to Whitehall.” She took a sip of her own drink, and gave him a curious look. “What's the matter? Are you having second thoughts about the symphony?”

Mycroft looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of the gold band where it lay on its side, surrounded by two pieces of hard candy and three rubber bands. After another moment of hesitation, he withdrew his hand.

“Not at all, my dear.” He rose from his chair and stretched, feeling strangely naked. After another moment, during which he tried to adjust to the feeling of intense trepidation he felt but knew was completely unwarranted, he pulled on his overcoat and grabbed his wallet, keys, and mobile from the open desk drawer, his eyes lingering on the gold band one more time before he slammed it shut. “I'm ready.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed this peek into Mycroft's psyche. Personally, writing this made me fall in love with his character.
> 
> Please comment to let me know what you think!!!


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